


Slipping down walls and breaking lines

by covertlys



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 17:58:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3619056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/covertlys/pseuds/covertlys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is still stuck in his walls after a horrifying incident three years back. Louis can help him heal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slipping down walls and breaking lines

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: this is a pure work of fiction. i do not, by any means, own the band and i am not affiliated with any of its members. this is also unbeta'd, so all errors are mine.
> 
> title credit: "sense" by tom odell
> 
> TW: brief mentions of suicide and dysfunctional marriage

Since that night, everything started to feel so wrong for Harry. The unfamiliar hostility that has sprung in his house scares him out of his bones. He expects that he would find the silence comforting by now, but it only evokes more haunts in his mind. What’s even worse is that he swears he still feels _his_ presence lingering around the flat. He still feels _him_ there every morning when he eats breakfast – _his_ lingering gaze, _his_ thumb figure-skating across the back of his hand, _his_ soft, radiating smile that’s brighter, better than the sun. He feels the ghost of _his_ lips on his forehead – the usual spot _he_ used to kiss before saying goodnight – after he flutters his eyes shut.

 

He feels so empty, so shallow. It’s like everything inside him was pulled out of him severely in one go, and nothing was left for him to recover with.

 

He also wonders how other people actually recover from a loss, because it seems to him that recuperating from this deep gash is hugely improbable.

 

He still pristinely remembers their final chapter. Both the light beginning – the sweet caresses, the marriage, the hopeful promise of forever – and the dark ending – the late-night arguments, the doors slammed, the repeated “I’m sorry.”

 

He wants to run away from it all, at the same time he wants to never let go.

 

In some nights, Harry would feel a sudden surge of cold, bitter fluid running in his veins, making him shiver and immobile. He would get stuck in replaying the memories in his mind, until he reaches the dark point of it all. The guilt keeps on resurfacing underneath his skin, ready to engulf him. He’d trap himself in his own bubble and drown himself in blame. He’d lose himself, and he’d only regain it once the sun has risen and thick tear stains have left his face cold and numb.

 

So one night, he decided to forget all of it, even just for once. The stale air of his residence had been suffocating him for too long. He’d grown tired of his solitude bringing up too much of what happened before. He wanted to prick his bubble for a change.

 

Now he finds himself sitting on a chair near the bartender’s counter with his eyes lidded and hands hugging the condensation that’s develop on his bottle of beer. He thinks the place is too loud, and he gets irritated at first. He realizes it’s just what he needs, isn’t it? He needs something, _anything_ , to fill up the void that has developed in him. He realizes that silence only makes his mind run faster and his heart race more like a jackrabbit.

 

So he downs another bottle of beer - is this his third? Fourth? Harry has lost count - and rests his forehead on the brim of the bottle’s mouth after. The coldness of the bottle soothes minutely his dull headache. The thumping beat becomes muffled in his ears, and - okay, this is good. The alcohol’s inebriating his blood. It’s good. He stays like that until he sees in his periphery a figure taking a seat next to him. Even the man’s voice sounds muffled in his head. He figures the man had ordered something equally strong as his beverage. He then turns his gaze to him.

 

“Hey mate. Y’alright there?” The man inquires with his sharp Northern accent. Harry only manages a short grunt as a response. The man next to him laughs. He doesn’t know what’s funny. Maybe he’s also drunk, Harry thinks, or maybe he’s found something else that’s funny. Or, maybe he’s laughing at Harry’s current un-sober state. “You laughin’ at me?” Harry slurs, eyes narrowing at the man. “No, ‘s just. You look cute.” The man shrugs. Harry likes how the man’s voice sounds like sweet, sticky honey. (He’s probably just getting drunker.) He sees a blurred image of something that looks like a smile, so he rubs his finger against his eyes, hoping to see a clearer picture.

 

The man looks somewhere in his late twenties, maybe about his age. He’s got brown hair that’s styled into a fringe. (It looks soft. Harry wants to touch it.) Behind his dark-rimmed glasses are his blue, piercing eyes, although their piercing effect is not unwelcoming. It’s rather out of curiosity, it seems to Harry. His eyes are also magnetizing, and Harry wishes he could swim in them instead of the dark, murky waters of his sadness. Also, Harry notices, stubble peppers his chin, which makes him ruggedly attractive. He’s got a nice smile too. And his _cheekbones_ , god. Are those even real? Harry thinks they’re not. They’re too perfectly chiseled. It’s unfair. The man’s face should be banned.

 

“Are your cheekbones real? I bet they’re not,” Harry finds himself saying. His brain-to-mouth filter is not functioning well under the influence of alcohol. The man laughs again. Harry finds his laugh contagious, so he laughs too. It’s been a while since he’s let a sound like that escape from his mouth. But, eh, he’s drunk. It doesn’t count.

 

“Are you this ridiculous when drunk?” The man teases. Harry shrugs in return. “Not really, but attractive guys make me act this weird.” He says with a matching wink. Okay, he’s laid his cards on the table now. A bit of flirting never hurt anyone, anyway. The man smirks. “Hmm, forward. I like it. I’m Louis by the way.” “Louis. Nice name,” Harry says. He likes how the name smoothly flows on his tongue. “’M name’s Harry.” The man’s – Louis’, he’s got a name now, Harry reminds himself – smile grows bigger. “Nice to meet you, Harry. Your name’s not bad too.” Harry smiles back. Louis’ order finally arrives. He takes a sip, wincing at his first gulp. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Harry trains his eyes on the gesture. Harry gives Louis a once-over, until Louis catches his eye. They look at each other for a while, until Harry invites, “Hey, wanna dance?” Louis says yes.

 

The intricate details of what happened next become a blur to Harry’s mind, but he still remembers the sensations. He remembers slotting in the middle of the dancefloor, and the crowd’s continual wave of pushing. He remembers the constant thumping of the beat, and how good it felt to have Louis with him. He remembers Louis pressing his back against Harry’s chest, unsubtly pushing his bum on Harry’s crotch. He remembers moaning softly against Louis’ ear. He remembers Louis leaning back his head with his eyes closed on Harry’s shoulder while Harry grinds against him. He remembers the heat developing between them while he sucks on a soft part of Louis’ shoulder blade. He remembers asking Louis “Your place or mine?” and Louis breathily answering “Yours.”

 

He remembers the hurried undressing once they arrived at his flat. He remembers stumbling a bit on the way to his bedroom. He remembers the touches, the clashing tongues, the heat of the moment. He remembers how everything felt so good, how lustful he was.

 

The next thing he knew, the morning is already greeting them under the sheets. Harry wakes up lying on his side, facing the window. He slowly opens his eyes, carefully avoiding the sting of hangover he’s anticipating. He fails, and groans instead before closing his eyes again. He squints, letting his eyes get used to the sunlight, and feels his surroundings.

 

He’s naked, he realizes, after finding his clothes on the side of the bed when he looks down on the floor. He shifts and lies on his back. The brief motion makes his head spin. It’s like a jackhammer’s continuously pounding on his cranium. It’s not a pleasing feeling, not at all. After attempting to calm down his headache by squeezing his eyes shut, he hears a soft snore next to him. He then looks sideways.

 

He sees a man peacefully asleep, with his limbs sprawled out all over his side of the bed. His right arm is hung on the edge of the bed. Harry recalls his name – Louis – and last night’s events. Bleary strobe lights, bottles of beer downed in one go, Louis fucking him to oblivion. At some point, he feels a pang of guilt, although he thinks it’s unreasonable. He’s also entitled to let loose sometimes, he argues to himself. There’s no one to be guilty for anymore.

 

 _No one_ , Harry gulps. That miniscule thought immediately sends him down the black hole. He feels tears starting to swamp on his eyes and – _no_. It’s not the right time. He feels pathetic for almost crying over a single thought. But who can blame him, anyway? He is entitled to cry over things too. Just, not now. He pushes back the tears, exhales, hoping to even out his breathing, and gently sits up on the bed, feeling a twinge of pain in his bum in the process. He doesn’t want to stir Louis, not yet, but unfortunately he sees Louis crease his face and move his body slowly – the early signs of waking up. Louis clears his throat and rubs his knuckles on his eyelids. “Hi,” he says, voice still thick with drowsiness. He also sits up on the bed right beside Harry and reaches towards the drawer beside him to get his glasses. Harry smiles at him weakly. “Had a good sleep?” “Er, it was good, I guess,” Louis answers. He quickly adds, “But last night was good, though. Best one I had in a while.” He winks at Harry. A short chuckle escapes from Harry’s lips, and then he looks down on the ruffled blanket covering his lower body. They remain silent for a while, until Harry turns to look at Louis again. He sees something different in the other man’s eyes – is it endearment? – and sees it go away as fast as he noticed it. Louis averts his gaze to his palms resting on his blanket-clad thighs and blushes, or maybe Harry’s just imagining it. He then clears his throat. “Um, do you- breakfast?” He mentally claps at his eloquence. At least that makes Louis laugh. “Yes, I do breakfast,” he answers playfully.

 

Once they go downstairs, Harry takes a couple of painkillers to ease down his throbbing headache. He prepares breakfast for the both of them, while Louis takes a seat on the dining area. They sit across each other during the meal. Harry stays quiet and pretends to not notice Louis’ flitting glances around the dining room. Louis breaks the stillness. (Harry thinks he always does, if he were to rely on his physiognomic judgment.) “So, er, do you mind if I ask a bit?” “Sure,” Harry answers simply. He even musters what seems to be a small smile for him. Louis then intently looks at Harry.

 

“How old are you?”

“’M twenty-six. You?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Oh.” Harry thinks of a joking retort. “Looks like someone’s on the brink of-”

“Hey. Watch it,” Louis says pointedly to Harry. It makes Harry laugh, and the sudden burst of genuine happiness surprises him. It’s been a while since, well, that came out of him. He bites his lower lip and suddenly becomes interested on his plate. Louis notices, but doesn’t bring it up. Harry’s grateful for that. “What do you do for a living, Harry?” Harry looks again at Louis. “I run a bookshop.” That seems to interest Louis, even though Harry doesn’t know why. Honestly, his business is as interesting as a crumpled piece of paper on the street. “Really? That’s quite cool,” Louis says brightly. He doesn’t understand why Louis’ interested. Not one bit. If he comes to think of it, his business truly fits him – plain, dull, boring. That’s why his shop is nothing compared to those in the heart of the city – flamboyant, crowded, and just simply _huge_. There’s no room for competition, is there? Harry doesn’t think otherwise. “I don’t think so,” Harry scoffs. Louis frowns. “Why not? I mean, I’m a fan of reading meself – I’m a drama teacher, by the way, so you know how it is – and I’d say your shop might be a safe haven.” Harry shrugs in reply. “Eh, for me it’s not. It’s just like the extension of my flat. Quiet, dull, and, well, empty.” Louis leans his head sideways, trying to find something in Harry’s eyes. There’s nothing to find; there’s nothing left, Harry mentally mutters. They both become silent after that. Louis asks Harry if he could get a glass of water. Harry nods and says, “Glasses are in the third cupboard from the left.” “Okay,” Louis answers before proceeding to the kitchen. When he comes back, he asks, “Who’s that man in the picture by your fridge? Is he your boyfriend?” Harry stills. He becomes rigid, and he feels cold. Louis seems to be oblivious of this, though. “I’m just going to wash the dishes,” he says instead of answering Louis’ question. He stands up rather abruptly and puts Louis’ plate on top of his. Louis’ eyes widen at the apparent realization that just hit him. “Wait, oh my god, are you-” “No. Stop. No more questions,” Harry snaps at him, shooting a glare at Louis’ direction. He doesn’t want to talk about it, never. He hopes Louis gets the point. Louis apologizes. “Sorry. I- okay. Sorry,” he says before pursing his lips.

 

They don’t talk after that. Louis only stands awkwardly by the counter, quietly observing his surroundings. The only noises are the clatter of the plates in the sink and the water running from the tap. Once Harry’s done with the dishes, he wipes his hands and turns to look at Louis. He’s not by the counter anymore, but he hears footsteps padding on the tiled staircase. Louis is pulling down his shirt and buttoning up his trousers. He shuffles his feet while putting on his sneakers. After adjusting his glasses, he says goodbye to Harry. “It was nice meeting you, Harry.” “You too,” Harry replies halfheartedly. Louis proceeds to the doorway, and takes a final glance at Harry, who has his back turned while arranging a stack of papers on a desk. Harry hears him sigh before exiting the flat.

 

•••

 

Harry was never a morning person, if he were to be honest.

 

He hates waking up to the annoying beeping of his alarm clock. “Nggh,” he grunts as he reaches out towards the drawer’s top to turn it off. He sighs contentedly afterwards and sidles back underneath the covers. He tries to get a little bit of more sleep and before his eyes finally shut, his alarm clock blares again. He harshly shuts its alarm off, putting it down the drawer forcefully, and sits up on the bed grumpily. Another fabulous way to start the morning, he rolls his eyes internally. He stands up and does his morning routine.

 

Another thing he hates about mornings is commuting. He just simply hates making his way through the crowds compressing towards the entrance to the tube. More often than not, he wishes in vain that these people would get their own means of transportation to make things easier. He includes himself there, mind. But really, he didn’t have to commute before. _He_ used to drive him to work, give him a sweet, farewell kiss before calling out a “Have a nice day in work, love,” and-

 

He’s doing it again. No, not in the morning. It’s too heavy for him to handle at such a delicate time of the day. Those things were reserved for the night, the latest hour – the only period of the day when angst and frustration are permitted. He physically shakes his head to clear out his mind and reluctantly waits in line for the train.

 

Being squished while entering the tube is not a very nice feeling either. Harry despises it. He despises the way people can’t just fucking enter the vehicle properly, like how they were taught in Ethics at school. So clearly, he has a fair reason to hate mornings. Luckily, he is able to snatch a seat on the tube, purposefully ignoring the furious, low grumble a middle-aged man lets out after Harry takes his supposed-to-be seat. At least that’s a minor consolation for his early-morning grudge. He pulls out the day’s paper from his satchel and reads the headline story. He feels his seatmate shifting and slightly pushing him, so he diverts his attention to it.

 

He’s quite surprised to see that familiar face again, after what seems like a lifetime. (Really, it’s only been about a week since their one-night stand. Harry’s pitiful wallowing makes time trickle slowly like black treacle, so a span of days seems to drag on forever.) He figures he looks stupid looking at Louis’ face dumbly, so he tries to smile at him. Tries, because even smiling has become a huge effort for him, what with the situation he’s on now. Louis politely reciprocates the greeting. “Morning,” he says, voice chipper and warm. Louis’ eyes are practically smiling at him, all expectant and amiable. Deep inside, Harry envies him for being so effortless in showing genuine emotion. He thinks of it and, well yeah, he can actually do the same too. If he lets himself, that is. “Uh, hey Louis.” He blandly greets with his voice low. Louis doesn’t seem to mind Harry’s low spirits. “Been a while, eh? How’s everything?” Harry clears his throat. “Okay. I’m good. Slow business as usual. You?” He has picked up this habit of cutting his responses short. He thinks that saying too much is too tiresome, and it also has become annoying to him too. As they say: fewer words, less complications. Whatever. Louis believes the complete opposite, though. “Well, I visited my family back at Donny during the weekend. It’s insane how much my siblings have grown, like, I still remember them being in cribs sucking on pacifiers…”

 

And on and on Louis rambled about how the past days have been for him. Naturally, Harry would’ve literally slapped the face of any person who would drone on about their day, a thing he clearly never cared about. But it’s _Louis_ , and everything’s different with him. Harry cannot comprehend this shift on his personality, like Louis has established a special set of protocol for Harry whenever he does something, whether Harry usually found it annoying on other people or not. It’s very, very ridiculous.

 

During the following minutes of their ride, Harry finds himself listening to Louis’ never-ending tales, may it be about his mum calling at night just to ask how he was or about his Irish flat mate being hit by a football square in the face. The thing is he’s not just feigning his intent listening to Louis. It’s easy for him to be drawn to his stories, how ridiculously odd they may be. It’s to no one’s surprise that Louis’ life is _way_ more interesting than his. Looking on Harry’s life is like listening to a long, flat note. It’s fruitless and not worthy of spending time at.

 

If Harry looks back to who he was a couple of years ago, he’d be disbelieving the image that would form in his head. He imagines a bright-eyed, happy-go-lucky Harry, all smiles and openness. He’s not going to miss out the tint of cheekiness he had before. Flirtatious, that’s how _he_ described him in the first place. Basically, he used to be like Louis, always looking out on the brighter side of life. But bad things happen to people, and those things mold them into something irreparable, right? Harry uneasily fit himself right in the mold he’s been given to, and now he’s frayed on the edges. What was once a star in the sky became something that slowly dimmed out, until it camouflaged with the darkness that’s laid out behind it. _His_ departure is something that set weightily in his bones, and he can’t shake it off. It’s settled there, in the depths of his being, and he’s too weak to pull it out from him. He knows all too well that once he does, he’d leave his self into nothingness. _His_ remains, in a metaphorical sense, keep Harry alive, apparently, even if it seems messed up.

 

Finally, their ride comes to a halt. Harry prepares to say farewell to Louis, since the tube has stopped to his station, but then Louis says, “Oh well, here’s my stop.” “Oh. It’s mine too.” “Huh. Funny that we never came across each other sometime sooner, like we take the same ride at the same time.” Louis says it in a curious tone. Harry only shrugs. They climb up the tube station’s exit together. Once they reach the top of the stairs, Harry inhales deeply. He is aware that the city air is highly polluted, but it calms his nerves anyway. Louis gazes expectantly at him. “Where is your glorious bookstore located, dear Harold?” “Just around the block,” Harry replies while walking on the pavement with Louis. “Really? It’s near my school!” Louis says excitedly. (Why is Harry endeared? He shouldn’t be.) “So that means I can visit you for some time, yeah?” He shoots Harry a hopeful smile. In only a short period of time, Louis is becoming a part of him. He’s pretty sure this must worry him by now. “Um, yeah. Sure,” Harry says anyway. Louis halts by the bus stop. Harry follows suit. “Got other businesses to take care for today, though,” Louis chuckles. “But I'll see you around, Harry,” he bids before entering the bus. Harry only gives him a minimal wave as good bye then heads out for work.

 

Harry never awaited for the next morning this eagerly. It’s nothing, really.

 

•••

 

After they met on their way to work the second time around, Louis asks Harry out for lunch in the cafeteria near his school. “Is this, like, a date?” Harry asks when they’re already seated. Louis shakes his head and smirks at him. “Well, I guess I’ll just leave that to you.” It only confuses Harry even more, so he decides to drop the subject.

 

They get to know each other, like how they used to when they had breakfast together. One of them asks a question, and then they both answer alternately. It’s some sort of a ‘twenty questions’ thing.

 

“Got any siblings?”

“I’ve a sister. Her name’s Gemma. About your age.”

“I’ve got – hold on – five sisters, and a brother. All younger than me.”

“Drama’s always been your passion?”

“Yes. How ‘bout you? Always been about books?”

“Kind of. I just like it, is all.”

 

They pass the time just throwing questions at each other. Harry’s still limiting his responses as much as he can, while Louis blabbers on animatedly. He cracks a few jokes here and there, which amuses Harry. It’s been a long time since he has felt this easy being with anyone else. It’s been a while too since someone has bothered to spend time with him. His old friends believe that they might interrupt his ‘healing period’ if they decide to go hang out with him, so they’d rather leave him for himself at the mo. Don’t get him wrong, Harry does enjoy being alone. He gets to contemplate freely. But sometimes, it leads him to poking at his wounds and going back to his dark depths, that’s why he’d let anything or anyone to distract him once in a while.

 

It’s not just the company that Harry starts to like about Louis. He also likes the lilt in his voice whenever he talks. He likes the glints in his eyes, the way Harry’s captivated by them. He likes that he doesn’t mind Harry’s insipid company, and doesn’t think of him as dead weight.

 

A single lunch turns into two, into three, until it becomes a habitual activity. Harry’s surprised that he doesn’t inch away from Louis, not like how he expected himself would be. They just fill their time talking. Obviously, Louis does most of it, and Harry resorts to listening tirelessly. There’s quite something different happening though. Harry eventually breaks out from his shell and eases with Louis’ chatter. He even makes Louis laugh, and he deems that his laughter is one of the best sounds he’s ever heard in his life.

 

Maybe it’s just him, but Harry does feel lighter. He can’t explain it, but somehow he’s glad about it.

 

He’s also glad that Louis doesn’t ask again about the man in the photograph.

 

•••

 

It’s quite odd, this thing between him and Louis, because Harry’s pretty sure there’s supposed to be a protocol for one-night stands. They shouldn’t date, that is. He already figured out that Louis _is_ actually asking him out, how much Harry had denied it before. They’re supposed to be a one-time thing only, like ‘hey, thanks for the night, see you again never.’ Louis broke the protocol though, more like he doesn’t give a fuck about it. So far, they’ve exchanged numbers, visited each other at work, and spent time at each other’s flats after-hours.

 

Harry doesn’t know if this should alarm him or please him, but he thinks he’ll just wait and see.

 

•••

 

It all starts with boredom.

 

Harry knows it’s ironic for him to say because, well, he’s not an interesting being himself. But he’s tired of the monotonous shows he sees in every change of the channel on the telly. He turns it off instead, and looks around the household. It’s his day off, anyway, so he’s got all the time for himself.

 

He takes out some of the boxes beneath his work desk in his storage room cum office. He coughs as dust welcomes his face once he opens a box. He waves his hand in front of his face to dispel the dust and runs his hand on the box’s lid to clean it up a bit. He looks at the contents of the box and takes out one. It’s one of his family albums, dated ten years back. That brings a small smile to his face. He flicks it open and sees a pudgy, cherub-like Harry and a younger Gemma with their cousins and other relatives.

 

He finishes looking at all the photo albums in the stack. He notices there’s something left at the bottom of the box. It doesn’t look like a photo album, since it has a smaller size. Harry decides to grab it.

 

He blows away the dust accumulated by the cover, and – oh.

 

He knows what this is all too well. It’s a leather-bound journal with the small initials of the owner written on the corner of its cover. It’s _his_ journal. _He_ used to write on it five years ago, before everything came crashing down. Before he went away.

 

Harry hesitates before opening it. He’s on fragile ground, he knows that.

 

He reads anyway.

 

At first, the entries are light, and some of them are taken from lyrics of the songs _he_ loves, or they both love. Reminiscing the good parts of their life together makes Harry’s heart swell up.

 

It’s all sweet, until Harry reaches to the latest entries. They’re comparably shorter, but they’re pregnant with much more emotion.

 

_02/01/2012_

_i’m sorry, love, i didn’t mean to miss it. please don’t blame me._

_05/24/2012_

_he’s better, isn’t he?_

_09/28/2012_

_i can’t seem to make you happy, how much i try._

Harry keeps on turning to the next page, and the next, with his hands shaking and palms wet.

 

Finally, he reaches to the last entry. He bites his lip.

 

_11/25/2012_

_i’m sorry, love, if i sat on your shoulders for too long._

_at least this will make you happier, right?_

“No, fuck. Fuck,” Harry mutters to himself. He remembers coming home late that night, and sensing something odd once he stepped on the doorway. He remembers expecting _him_ to be right there on the couch, lazily watching nightly news. He remembers hanging his coat on the rack and calling out _his_ name. He remembers thinking that maybe _he_ just went up to their bedroom, that’s all. He remembers checking their room and seeing no one there. He remembers his heart racing faster in every step he took. He remembers hesitantly checking the bathroom, and calming a bit when he found out that it’s spotless. He remembers checking the farthest bedroom in their flat, and finding out that it’s locked. He remembers jamming the knob in panic just to enter the room. He remembers the dim light of the lamp on the corner, the cold body – _his_ cold body - hanging lifelessly in front of him, the noose around his husband’s neck.

 

Every memory’s rushing too fast in his mind that they seem to only form a blur, yet Harry can clearly see every single one of them.

 

It’s enough to make Harry see nothing but black. He doesn’t feel the tears cascading down his face and making his eyes rimmed red. He hastily runs his hand in his drawers to find the thing his hands are itching to grab a hold on to. After not finding what he needs, he goes downstairs and opens the drawers there.

 

Harry opens each one too forcefully that makes the contents drop to the floor messily. “Holy shit, where is it, _where is it_?” He nearly shouts in dismay when he can’t seem to find it. Finally, he finds his gun. He checks if it’s loaded, then he slides down to the floor with his legs weak.

 

He props up the gun on his hand and aims it on his temple. He shakes his head and sobs uncontrollably.

 

_I’m sorry, Harry._

 

He positions his finger on the trigger.

 

_I was never enough, wasn’t I?_

 

He exhales. He bites his lip harder until he tastes a metallic tang on his tongue.

 

_I hope this makes you happy, love._

 

He’s about to pull the trigger, and-

 

He hears his phone ringing. It’s placed on the floor beside his leg, it probably landed there along with the other things while he was pulling out the drawers.

 

He sees the caller ID – it’s Louis.

 

That makes Harry drop the gun and curl up on himself instead. He presses his face against the jut of his knees and cries hard. He doesn’t answer his phone – he can’t, because all he hears is the ringing in his ears that’s trapping him up again in his bubble.

 

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt him, I’m so sorry,” he says to himself repeatedly with his voice shaking and his body trembling. He balls his hands up into fists and hits the sides of his thighs repetitively. He then buries his fingers to his hair and hides his face behind his legs.

 

He stays like that for a long time, repeating that very same statement over and over. He doesn’t notice Louis entering his flat, immediately approaching him and wrapping him in his arms.

 

“Harry, Harry,” Louis tries to knock Harry off of his state. Harry only shakes his head. “I’m so sorry, it’s my fault! I killed him, I killed him, I’m so sorry.” Harry’s voice continues to shake as he whispers. “Come on, Harry, love,” Louis says while holding Harry by his shoulders. “Harry, it’s fine. Harry, please look at me.” It only makes Harry curl up against him as he keeps on whimpering. Louis sighs and shushes Harry rather futilely. He helps Harry stand up and guides him towards his bed. After they lay down, Louis cuddles Harry and whispers to him soothingly. “Shh, it’s alright. I’m here.” Louis massages his scalp, hoping that it’ll calm Harry even for a bit. Harry closes his palms and leans on to Louis’ embrace. “P-please don’t go, Lou. I’m too scared,” Harry stutters.

 

“Shh,” Louis murmurs. “I’ll just stay here.”

 

•••

 

Harry wakes up to a warm body pressed up against his back.

 

He realizes it is Louis after he not-so-gently turns around to have a good look at him. Louis is puffing out soft breaths, his eyelashes fanned out against his cheekbones. Harry thinks he looks so tranquil. He can’t resist running his thumb lightly on Louis’ cheekbones. Unfortunately, that sends Louis awake. He blinks a few times before putting on his glasses.

 

“Good morning, Haz,” he greets warmly. Louis’ smile sends out a fuzzy feeling to him, but it doesn’t bother him. “Hi. Morning.” “You okay now?” Louis asks, concern evident in his voice. That makes Harry look down in embarrassment. “I’m sorry you had to put up with me last night.” Louis frowns. “Hey, you don’t need to apologize.” He props himself with his elbow and leans closer to Harry. He places his palm on Harry’s cheek, which Harry leans on.

 

It’s the second time they eat breakfast together at Harry’s place. Louis takes this as his opportunity to ask Harry.

“Harry?”

“Hmm?” Harry shifts his gaze from his plate to Louis.

“What happened last night? I’m just gonna ask this because I’ve seen you, okay? It makes me concerned.”

“Um,” Harry replies timidly.

Louis sighs. “Harry. I only want to help, okay? So whatever it is, I won’t judge.”

Harry seems to think about it for a while.

“Alright,” he finally agrees. Harry bites on his lower lip out of anxiety, and Louis notices. He reaches his arm out across the table and holds Harry’s clenched hand. He then glides his thumb softly on it.

 

The gesture is all too familiar to Harry. It should send him running, panicking. But for now, he finds it soothing. When he looks at Louis’ face, he sees something that’s open and inviting. There’s nothing he should fear. He’s with someone he could trust, someone who can help him get over his nightmares.

 

Harry sighs. “I was married before, at the ripe age of 18.”

 

He continues his story, what happened between him and _him_. While he’s talking, he’s afraid Louis might look at him weirdly, but he checks and sees Louis looking at him comfortingly and attentively.

 

When he’s finished, Louis gives him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Haz,” he whispers. “No, it’s- it’s alright. Thank you for just being here, with me, and not like, sneering at me or something.” Louis furrows his brows. “Why would I do that? I want to help, remember?” “I’m so sorry for being pathetic,” Harry scoffs depreciatingly. Louis transfers to the seat next to him. “Hey, I don’t like to hear that again, okay? It’s alright to be sad, but I hope you’d let it all go now. He’s in a safer place now, Harry. He’s okay now.” Harry only looks down on his lap for a couple of minutes. “I guess so.” Louis lifts Harry’s chin up. “Look at me.” Harry does.

 

What he sees in Louis’ eyes is something promising, something tender. All of his urges to run away and hide with his depression completely dissipated. He can breathe easily again. Maybe Louis could shift him back to the right track while holding his hand, guiding him.

 

Harry inches closer to Louis. Louis slowly flutters his eyes shut and meets him halfway.

 

 _I’m here, I won’t leave, start again with me_ , Harry can taste from Louis’ lips.

 

With that, Harry’s ready to lift off his blindfold and see again. He’s ready to resurface from the pool of grief that’s left his skin all wrinkled and weak.

 

Maybe it will be alright, Harry thinks. Maybe it won’t be so bad after all.

**Author's Note:**

> complete, utter work of trash. this is my first fic, you know how it is. 
> 
> sorry.


End file.
